Decadence

Also by Eric Jerome Dickey

The Education of Nia Simone Bijou
(e-book)

An Accidental Affair

Tempted by Trouble

Resurrecting Midnight
(Gideon series)

Dying for Revenge
(Gideon series)

Pleasure

Waking with Enemies
(Gideon series)

Sleeping with Strangers
(Gideon series)

Chasing Destiny

Genevieve

Drive Me Crazy

Naughty or Nice

The Other Woman

Thieves' Paradise

Between Lovers

Liar's Game

Cheaters

Milk in My Coffee

Friends and Lovers

Sister, Sister

Anthologies

Voices from the Other Side: Dark Dreams II

Gumbo: A Celebration of African American Writing

Mothers & Sons

Got to Be Real

River Crossings: Voices of the Diaspora

Griots Beneath the Baobab: Tales from Los Angeles

Black Silk: A Collection of African American Erotica

Movie—Original Story

Cappuccino

Graphic Novels

Storm
(six-issue miniseries, Marvel Entertainment)

ERIC JEROME DICKEY

DECADENCE

DUTTON

DUTTON

Published by the Penguin Group

Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,

New York, New York 10014, USA

USA | Canada | UK | Ireland | Australia | New Zealand | India | South Africa | China

Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

For more information about the Penguin Group visit penguin.com.

Copyright © 2013 by Eric Jerome Dickey

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

REGISTERED
TRADEMARK
—
MARCA REGISTRADA

LIBRARY
OF
CONGRESS
CATALOGING
-
IN
-
PUBLICATION
DATA
:

Dickey, Eric Jerome.

 

D
ECADENCE /
E
RIC
J
EROME
D
ICKEY.

PAGES CM

ISBN
978-1-101-60966-8

1.
A
FRICAN
A
MERICAN WOMEN—
F
ICTION. 2.
S
ELF-REALIZATION IN WOMEN—
F
ICTION.
I
.
T
ITLE.

PS
3554.
I
319
D
43 2013

813'.54—DC23 2012043098

 

PUBLISHER
'
S
NOTE

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

For Dominique

This novel takes place during the Penguin Special

The Education of Nia Simone Bijou.

Just thought you should know that.

—The Management aka EJD

We might be through with the past, but the past ain't through with us.

—
Magnolia
(1999)

 

 

The woman who follows the crowd will usually go no further than the crowd. The woman who walks alone is likely to find herself in places no one has ever been before.

—Albert Einstein

I held his lingam,
suckled the part called the meatus. The glans. Licked his foreskin. Suckled the shaft. At the same time I felt his mouth and tongue on my sex. On my mons pubis. Clitoral hood. Labia majora. He painted from my glans clitoris across my labia minora to my meatus. He pushed his tongue inside of me, inside of my orifice, licked up and down, across my perineum and almost to my anus. Then my lover held me by my ankles, had me on my back, on a soft hotel bed overlooking the docks. His erection remained profound. The color, the texture, the evenness. He wanted me to see its muscularity, its veins. The way testicles were attached to his tool, and it was indeed a tool, was nice. His foreskin didn't extend beyond the end of the penis. His lingam was worthy of being plastered and molded and sold in adult toy stores. He pushed my ankles toward the headboard. My knees bent and he denied me his lingam, eased his face between my legs, extended his tongue, parted the lips of my yoni, then his tongue stiffened and moved deep inside of my sex. My hands grabbed the white cotton sheets, clawed and pulled.

I looked across the hotel room and saw my second lover.

I nodded, told him to come to us, told him to come help please me.

I told him to come give me pleasure.

He eased inside of my body and settled in.

I wasn't in search of the lies that came with romance.

I didn't want to be a slave to my heart.

I needed more than simple pleasure.

I was back home in Trinidad. Land of the Hummingbird. The island of the Trinity. Where the majority of the population was East Indian and black, where many were of combined heritages, and where all others were minorities. My lover was beyond handsome, beyond exotic, dressed very hip, very sophisticated, looked
Trinizuelan
. We had met in South Trinidad in the area called Philippine during the first night of a wedding celebration, a three-day Hindu fête that was being thrown at the prime minister's extravagant mansion. I had crossed Trinidad's velvet rope and was placed at a white-tablecloth table with a few other Trinbagonians. We were introduced by the minister of transportation; all of us at a party for those who had either status, positive fame, or deep connections on the island: politicians and powerful men and women who had so much familial money that they made the American rich seem as if they were paupers struggling to become middle class. But from the poor to the rich, men were men and women were women, even when they were prim and proper and in high heels and a long skirt.

All had carnal desires. All had needs.

After the beautiful prime minister had entered wearing a beautiful golden-and-red lehenga-style saree, she walked the receiving line, then made her rounds. The affair was standing room only and soon we relinquished our table that was on the fringe of the Indian singers and live band. We exchanged smiles as we moved and stood by the crowded bar and talked about the religion of greed and hubris, the biggest threat to our economic and social order. Much eye contact. Transmitting. Receiving.

Restless. Once again I lived in a season of restlessness and desire.

My carnal craving revealed itself in my eyes. The message was clear. He was in need. I was in need. I was always in need.

With a man who was so handsome that it was startling and that left me open to whatever. He made me itch. I craved many positions. And at times I craved many lovers. I imagined being fucked inside of the prime minister's home, on her bed, in her office, then at the beach. In a parking lot. At church. In the kitchen. Inside of a movie theater. I wanted to be fucked inside of the bathroom at Rituals. I wanted him to make me taste him while people pushed grocery baskets around us in the frozen food section at Hi-Lo. I wanted him down my throat. Deep down this throat. I wanted to try anal again. I wanted him to spread open my chocolate star and give me that pain and pleasure. I craved it all, moaned a small moan and imagined all of that naughtiness, even the sacrilegious parts, without apology or shame.

I smiled at him. He smiled in return.

The party was outside underneath an amazing white tent that made the enormous tiled patio feel as if it were part of the interior of a home, the night air warm, humid, tropical, like the prelude to an astounding zipless encounter. I had been a jagabat, a wajang, a wabean, a woman of questionable morals, one who haunted the steamier side of life, a nocturnal female. As there were nocturnal men. As there were male whores on the prowl. One thing had led to another and he had extended an invitation to change our setting, and I had accepted. Then we had left the party in his car, driven the curves and narrow roads and roundabouts and highways and passed by people partying into the night and liming and selling oysters and doubles and fruit and coconut water as thumping music poured from innumerable drinking dens. He drove us back north, a forty-minute ride with us passing countless Digicel billboards, bMobile billboards, BP Petrol stations, and M. Rampersad, touching each other, my hand in his lap, his hand pressed in the V of my skirt, pressed so deep that it felt like his fingers were inside of me, massaging where my legs connected, rubbing me as I stroked him. The fire roared. I undid my seat belt, leaned over, and kissed him. My kiss was so intense he almost ran off the road. I kissed him as we sped down a highway as wide as parts of the 405, as insane as the Georgia 400 in Atlanta. Cars whipped by us. Horns blew. Then he parked. We kissed for a while. The intensity was amazing. As we sat in his car with the air conditioner on high, we were as warm as the night. Then I held his erection as he drove away, stroked him and touched myself as he zoomed by traffic, as he drove at twice the speed of the posted fifty-km/hr speed limit. I gave him my fingers, fingers that possessed my sweetness. I was a rebel. Breaking rules. Breaking the law. That excited me. That danger.

Swerving from lane to lane was orgasmic. I stroked him in slow motion. Made him grow. Once near the Queen's Park Savannah we were in insane late-night traffic, the traffic of partygoers and revelers, and he drove the two-mile loop of the world's largest roundabout, an area that used to be sugar land and now had cricket, football, and rugby matches, passed by the Botanic Gardens, Emperor Valley Zoo, National Academy for the Performing Arts, and the Magnificent Seven as I continued to masturbate him.

He swallowed. I told him to keep driving the world's largest roundabout.

The third time around, after being masturbated for six miles, he couldn't take it. He pulled over in front of the US Embassy. He threw his head back and made sexy sounds. I adored his arousal. I took him to the edge, and then backed away, to the edge, backed away. Watched him breathe like a dragon, hard, deep, heated. Watched him suffer as cars zoomed by, as horns blew, as people almost sideswiped each other, as people passed us walking the Savannah, as homeless people sat and slept on benches in the park. He had moved from the embassy, could barely drive and almost sideswiped a car, then almost ran into Tony's coconut stand, made a sharp turn here and there, frustrated as I laughed, passed by Flair, More Vino, Players, moaned and turned and turned, and parked in the McDonald's parking lot near Club Aura. I took my hand away and stared at the monument between his legs. It took a while, but he calmed enough to be able to walk, and we moved from bar to bar, mixing with people with roots in India, Venezuela, Serbia, island women from St. Kitts, Jamaica, Turks and Caicos, and Trinidad. Women wore short dresses, much flesh showing. Men wore trendy shirts and jeans and sexy shoes. We cruised from nightclubs to lounges and liming spots, drinking, touching, kissing, whispering, teasing, then left again, sat in his car kissing like lovers-yet-to-be, like lovers-destined-to-be. We headed toward the clubs and bars on Ariapita Avenue, The Avenue, his hand between my legs. As he drove by Mau Pau casino, he eased two fingers inside of me, finger-fucked me. I let the seat back and closed my eyes. He took me to the edge. I smiled at his game. We gave up the idea of getting back out of the car and mixing with the crawlers at Club 51 Degrees. The need to orgasm had become unbearably strong, the foreplay had been too much, his need to orgasm and please and come and please again had become just as strong. I begged him to take me to his hotel, kissed him and sucked his tongue and told him that we could stop hopping from small limes to big fêtes and make a fête of our own, a naked fête, a fête of moans and hands pulling sheets and orifices being intruded, nerves being ignited, the sensations bound to be unreal. I unzipped his pants, leaned over and gave him oral sex, sucked him, and made him shudder. His pre-come was sweet like guava, tamarind, mango, five-fingers, Portugal, and cherry fruits. I couldn't wait to make him come, to have his taste fill my mouth. He asked me my fantasies. Asked me what did I dream of doing, what type of loving did I want to make, and told me to trust him, begged me to trust me, told me that he was here for my pleasure, that he wasn't inhibited, that he would do what it took to please me. His words made me want to come. I told him my desires, my latest fantasy, my abnormal want. As I sucked him, as his hand massaged my hair, I told him. Whatever I needed, he could make happen. He sped by roadside watering holes and rushed me to a penthouse suite inside of the Hyatt, his bird's-eye view of the island facing the Breakfast Shed. He was distressed. As was I. It was time for pleasure. It was time for him to feel my heat and wetness, time for us to amalgamate as I felt the hardness of his lingam and the softness of his tongue. His suite overlooked the Gulf of Paria. Now with my ankles in his hands, my legs open wide, his tongue painting my sex as if he were Michelangelo and my sex the Sistine Chapel, he re-created the masterpieces
The Creation of Adam
,
The Forbidden Fruit
, his lips on my sex, his teeth on my sex, I was his captive, his prisoner.

It wasn't enough. He knew that. He had asked me my fantasies. They were beyond this.

I desired the abnormal. I'd lost my taste for regular things, a tofu sexual life didn't appeal to me.

Then my second lover entered the room. A man twice as handsome as the first.

I didn't want vanilla sex. My other lover undressed and stood nude, feet away, masturbating, watching. My eyes met his. I nodded.
Yes
. He came toward us, toward me, eased onto the bed, his heat powerful. My mouth opened and I licked my lips, hungry, ready to become a three-headed beast.

He blessed my taste buds with the flavor of Portugal, tamarinds, five-fingers, of many exotic fruits. Then he took out lubrication, used his middle finger and filled my chocolate star, and prepared me.

I was nervous. I was excited. I was ready. Mind, body, and soul, I wanted what I wanted.

My physical self had a demanding, ferocious appetite. Like a war between darkness and light, my yin and yang battled like Horus and Set. I understood that my inner adversaries weren't polar opposites, weren't as simple as dark and light, weren't manifestations of good and evil, but were interconnected and gave rise to each other. Yet they battled, remained in perpetual conflict, a never-ending war within my soul. Everything, everyone had yin and yang. Darkness could not exist without light, and without light, darkness had no definition. It was about balance, not about good or bad or dichotomous moral judgments.

My lovers. Each the perfect fit, as if each orifice had been designed with that particular lover in mind. And the way we danced, each the perfect rhythm.

They had me. They both had me at once. And I had them. I owned them because anything that was inside of my body belonged to me. I had them but all I could do was hold on and come, come, come, come, come, become the grunts to my heavy breathing as I became the
oohs
to their
aahs
; it was like love. They filled me from front to back, they kissed my skin, bit me, sucked both ears at once, said sweet and vulgar things, praised me, challenged me, and it felt so good that my guttural moans probably startled the birds and aroused the destitute around Brian Lara Promenade, probably paused the traffic on Wrightson Road and Maraval Highway; then we were intense and my screams of orgasmic pleasure could be heard in San Fernando, maybe as far as the shores of Venezuela. Being filled felt so fucking good.

The want of pleasure, the need to dance inside of the sexual fire in the pursuit of physical gratification, to embrace what was taboo, have carnal delight, the need to be satisfied, have all senses fulfilled until I was trembling and light-headed and dehydrated and was left as limp as a rag doll, to come until I cursed like a fiend, to have a powerful orgasm draw out this heat that lived within me. When I breathed, desires danced and I saw their colors, saw my own energy. I wanted the raging, savage force inside of me to be set free.

A third handsome man entered the hotel room. With candles lit, the shades drawn, the lights from ships out in the Gulf and the streetlights edging in, a third nude lover watched us from the shadows.

As I was being relished, as I existed on the edge of orgasm, I nodded, gave him my permission. And while one lover took the anterior position, as the other took the posterior, the third lover climbed on the king-size bed. Again, as I was filled, as I felt orgasm live and bloom inside of me, I tasted exotic fruits. There was no rush. There was no hurry. It wasn't fucking. It was love.

At the same time three lovers roared; at the same moment three lovers held me tight.

Energy poured into me, ignited me and as they thrust, I exploded.

Like savages, the violence of orgasm consumed us and we all came together.